


the rose will sing and fade away

by antikytheras



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: A little bit of angst, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Body Horror, But I am not Good at angst, Gen, Hanahaki Disease, I think it came off as horror, M/M, Magic, Might also be involved, There might be a bit of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-14
Updated: 2017-09-28
Packaged: 2018-10-31 16:56:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10903569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antikytheras/pseuds/antikytheras
Summary: The petals wither into the ground as he walks past. Like a trick of the light, one moment they are there, then the next, they are gone.(In which there is a curse, a florist with a (plastic) pretty smile, and a far-too-regular customer caught in the centre of the storm.)





	1. the rose

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LoreKaze131](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoreKaze131/gifts).



> Prompt: a little bit of angst, pining!Viktorx oblivious!Yuuri, happy ending.

Today, Viktor coughs up yellow flowers.

Daffodils, to be precise. The first hint is the bright yellow petal that erupts onto his hand. Even in the midst of an angry-violent coughing fit, Viktor recognises the pretty little sliver of venom. It's just a single blade of (sickly) yellow, but he knows that it's just a matter of time before the rest of its ugly comrades spill forth from his cursed lungs.

With a sigh (cut off by another ugly hacking cough) he rises, stepping away from the bucket of beautiful flowers. He'd been sorting through them, making sure that they looked good enough to be bundled into a bouquet and sold under his name. It'd taken years for him to build up his reputation as the best florist in the entire country. It wouldn't do for a single careless bloom to sully his reputation.

Another cough, and then he's stumbling to the front door of his flower shop.

More yellow petals scatter to the floor in his wake.

It's a painful reminder of his shortcomings, he thinks, staring at the sign intently. The big, bold red letters of "CLOSED" stare back at him. He sighs again, a thin rush of air through windpipes clogged with filth and poison. It comes out of him a pathetic, high whine.

He rests his forehead on the immaculate glass door. He'll have to clean the spot again later, but for now he can savour the view of the still-quiet street at six in the morning without the sign mocking him for everything cannot do, cannot be, cannot have.

He flips it over and retreats from the view of the public once more.

The petals wither into the ground as he walks past. Like a trick of the light, one moment they are there, then the next, they are gone.

He steps into the back room, pulling out a fistful of bright yellow poison from his pocket as he crosses the threshold. The door slams shut behind him.

\--

Yuuri knows flowers like the back of his hand.

Yellow roses, the petals still cupped in the tableau of a bud, for friendship that would creep into full bloom only when the receiver returned home. White, sharp-tipped stargazer lilies for condolences and quiet, heart-wrenching loss. Bluebells for gratitude, irises for good days. On the bad days, all of them in a single bouquet for the words that he could never (no longer) say.

His trips to the local florist are a weekly affair. Most people knew it for the charming young foreigner perched behind the counter, reading their minds with a keen, unobtrusive eye and always providing the perfect flowers to suit their needs. He has a nice smile, they would say, a dreamy look in their eyes.

When Yuuri buys flowers, all he can think is that the florist's smile looks fake as hell.

He avoids staying in the shop for too long, unable to bear the overpowering force of the foreigner's too-bright charisma. He dives in, retrieves his treasure, and resurfaces before the waves can drag him back under.

'Thank you,' are the only words he has ever said to the florist, avoiding his (plastic) gaze.

'You're welcome,' would be the florist's inevitable, unchanging reply.

At first it had been just that, a simple reply to a timeless phrase that had long lost its first breath of meaning. Then, slowly, something slipped in.

'Thank you,' Yuuri had said, turning away in a moment. Just like always.

He waited for the usual reply to ring hollow in his ears. Never in his life had he heard someone say 'You're welcome,' like they meant it.

But then something slipped through the florist's perfect mask.

'You're welcome,' like a lonely plea.

So today (which should have been just like any other day) Yuuri stands in front of the flower shop, staring at the closed sign with something churning in his chest.

He raises a hand, curled loosely into a fist, going through the motions of knocking on the crystal-clear glass door.

His knuckles land with the lightest of thuds.

He exhales, shoulder sagging, head bowed, wondering what came over him.

He drops his hand.

He takes a step back.

Turn.

And walk away.

\--

The bell guarding the door chimes, warning Viktor of an unwanted guest.

The red base of the bucket, covered with the splatterings of regurgitated yellow flowers, stares back at him. There's a sort of grotesque beauty in the arrangement of the petals, like feathers that had drifted down in peaceful slumber.

It's disgusting.

The itch in his windpipe digs deeper into his flesh, as if the flowers creeping up his throst could retaliate at his abhorrent thoughts. Briefly, he wonders if his lovely parasites had gained sentience, but is interrupted when he coughs up another handful of petals. These tumble out with a flash of red scarred into smooth yellow skin.

It tastes of metal and dry pain when he swallows. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

There's a knock on the door leading to the back room.

Viktor doesn't react when it swings open with a creak. Frankly, he's too busy throwing up blood and petals to care.

(And he knows who it is, anyway.)

'You're not looking too hot,' the intruder observes. There's a rustle of plastic and the clinking of bottles when he sets the bag in his hands on the floor.

Viktor spits out a black gob. 'I'll be fine,' he murmurs, the sound obscured by the scratching in his throat.

'Yeah? Well, I brought the weed-killer,' and the clinking of glass again, 'the lady didn't even blink when I dumped seven bottles on the counter. She might have been too busy staring at my crotch.' He laughs, easy and carefree. It's a sound that he's just only learned to perfect.

'That's what you get for wearing spandex in public,' Viktor mumbles, but he reaches for one of the many jars in the bag. They're all filled three-quarters to the brim with a clear, colourless solution.

'Do you want me to handle the shop? I ran into the glasses boy on my way here,' the intruder comments offhandedly, passing the glass over and pressing it into Viktor's too-warm hands. 'He looked a little down. Maybe he misses you.'

Viktor reaches into the red bucket and pulls out a handful of bright yellow daffodils. 'Don't be ridiculous,' he scoffs, and pays the price for his mockery when retches into the bucket once more.

He screws open the lid of the jar and picks at the flowers, pulling their petals off one by one. They hiss and dissolve when they so-much-as touch the surface of the poison.

In response, the jar warms in his hands and slowly develops a faint yellow shade.

'Is that piss?' The intruder crouches to peer at the now-disturbingly yellow jar.

Viktor downs the whole thing in a swig. It burns his mouth, his tongue bursting into what-feels-like hellfire, and the searing bitterness travels the rest of the way down to his stomach. The poison-antidote tears into the raw, abused mess of his throat, replacing the persistent itch of vines growing into skin with sharp stabs, knife-like strokes of pain.

But slowly, surely, the flowers creeping up his throat crumble to dust and fade away.

With the desperation of a man long-doomed to a slow and painful death, he drags himself back to the perfect facade of normalcy.

'I drink poison, not piss,' he snaps at Chris, who shrugs and holds up his hands in surrender.

'I'm not the one who was throwing up bleach all over the apartment at three in the morning. What would I know about poison piss?'

Too much, Viktor thinks, but he bites his (still burning) tongue.

Instead, he motions for Chris to bring him a blue plastic pail tucked away in a corner. It has precisely one use.

Chris swings it over in front of him just in time to catch the first wave of regurgitated poison, blood, and decaying petals.

'Where's the antidote?' he asks. He's carefully averting his gaze, offering the cursed man some illusion of privacy.

Even in the midst of his business with detoxifying his body, Viktor knows his back room well enough to vaguely gesture in a very particular direction to have Chris fetch him a small phial.

'It's still warm,' Chris observes, 'is it from this morning?'

Viktor nods. Or, well, he tries.

Chris doesn't comment when he stoops down to wipe up the projectile vomit. Instead, he quietly remarks, 'It's getting worse, isn't it.'

Viktor doesn't reply, too busy emptying his stomach to give Chris the pleasure of sighing out an "I told you so."

\--

The next day, when Yuuri goes to the flower shop, there's an unfamiliar man with brown roots showing through his bleached hair. He's standing with his arms crossed behind the counter (where the notably-absent silver-haired man usually stands about smiling vaguely) arguing with a teenager whose hair looked more like a natural shade of blond.

'—see him,' the smaller blond growls just as Yuuri steps in, the bell at the door tinkling to grace his entrance.

No one notices him. The taller, older-looking man throws his arms up in frustration. 'Look, Viktor said he doesn't want to see anyone right now, why don't you come back another day—'

The man with bleached hair locks eyes with Yuuri and cuts himself off. The other blond turns to stare at him as well.

Oh boy.

For some reason, the blond's eyes narrow and he storms up to Yuuri, who steps back into the door.

'You! I hope you're happy!' the blond spits, then shoulders past him and slams the door on his way out.

Before Yuuri can even blink, the man at the counter swears, a sheepish look replacing his irritation when he realises Yuuri's right there. 'Sorry you had to see that, I'll make sure he apologises to you. How can I help you today?' He smiles, a big, brilliant smile, and Yuuri's eyes travel down to the name tag on the front of his black apron. Chris, huh?

'I— Uhh— I'd like my usual,' Yuuri stammers, unsure of what exactly he'd just walked in on.

The man— Chris?— frowns. 'Give me a second,' he mutters, turning his back on Yuuri and staring at a wall.

Were all the people in the shop today suffering a bad bout of hay fever or something?

'Right, the bouquet,' Yuuri hears Chris mumble, then he's gone from view, having ducked down behind the counter.

He re-emerges with a gorgeous bouquet. 'This one, right?'

'Yeah. But,' Yuuri stares at the flowers, a frown creasing his brow, 'I don't usually get daffodils.'

Chris goes still for a second, but it's more than enough time for Yuuri's eyes to snap back up to his face and register the horror in his wide eyes.

The emotion leaves as quickly as it came, and then Chris's eyes are neutral and bright once more. 'Oh, well, you know, I thought it'd be good to throw in some extras! Guess it wasn't a good idea to mess around with Viktor's bouquets, huh,' he chuckles, scratching the back of his head.

The sirens blare even louder in Yuuri's head. 'I don't really need renewal or joy,' he says slowly.

'Oh? Oh man, Viktor's going to kill me, I don't really know anything about flowers,' Chris confesses, 'but I would probably mess up the arrangement really badly if I tried to take them out so would it be okay if you held on to them?'

'Then how did you put them in?'

Silence follows Yuuri's brazen question.

'Er, I mean, it's okay, I'll just take them, then!' Yuuri laughs. It's as forced as Chris's smile.

'Oh man, thanks so much, Viktor would have my head if he knew!' Chris laughs too, but his eyes keep drifting to the wall. 'Maybe I'd better close up early before I scare off more customers.'

'That might be for the best.' Yuuri smiles politely and says his farewell.

'Please come again!'

It's not 'You're welcome,' and it's startling to hear how much difference it makes. There's more authenticity, more emotion in the invitation, but somehow it still feels like there's something missing.

Something's not right with the florist. That something sits tight in his chest, curled over his heart and slowly eating away at him from the inside.

Yuuri stares at the too-bright daffodils all the way to the cemetery.

\--

'I think the florist might be a murderer,' Yuuri groans, burying his head in his hands.

He's sitting on the floor of Phichit's room, playing one of the latest JRPGs on his PS4. Or at least, that's what he was doing until he threw down the controller, having ragequit at the appearance of a Reaper for the fifteenth time.

Phichit looks up from his phone. He'd been amazingly oblivious to Yuuri's heated gaming. Clearly, it had been just Yuuri being ignored in favour of Phichit's social media. 'Huh? What makes you say that?' Phichit tilts his head. 'Viktor's an amazing guy, I don't think he'd kill a fly.'

'Dude, have you seen all the weed-killer in that place? It's enough to drown a man.'

'Well, he's a florist, right,' and Phichit's eyes have returned to the screen, 'he should have some plant stuff lying around.'

'It's not like he grows the flowers himself,' Yuuri argues hotly, and Phichit slows his typing. 'Why would he need weed-killer? He imports them from all over, right? That's why he's got the best flowers?'

There's a thump when Phichit's phone hits the bed. 'I'm sure he has some use for them,' he says dubiously. 'Why are you so worked up over him anyway? I know you don't like him, but this is a bit much.'

'It's not that I don't like him,' Yuuri sighs, throwing himself onto the bed and into Phichit's lap. 'He just. I don't know. I respect him a lot for what he does but if he's a murderer I don't know if I can still feel the same way.'

Phichit gasps theatrically, his hands flying to his cheeks. 'Do you have a crush?'

'Yeah, I guess he's not gonna be dumb enough to— wait, what?'

'No wonder you've been so obsessed lately,' Phichit gushes, charging straight down the wrong line of thought.

'No, that's absurd, what are you—'

'It's okay, I love you no matter who you bone—'

'Phichit please—'

'—as long as you fly me to the wedding! He's rich, isn't he? Best florist in the country and everything?'

'World, maybe,' Yuuri mumbles absentmindedly, his mind having wandered back to his mental checklist for his 100% completion run of the video game. He'd have to go buy some bio-nutrients to increase his kindness…

'—so I guess I'll help you break into the shop!' Phichit ends with a dramatic sigh.

'How did you even get that far without me saying anything,' Yuuri deadpans.

Phichit winks. 'You know you love me.'

'I do,' Yuuri groans again, burying his head in his hands. Again.

'Splendid! Let's go right now.'

\--

This might have been a mistake.

'You can't throw a brick through the door!' Yuuri yells, horrified.

'Don't be silly,' Phichit tuts, even though Yuuri, to this day, continues to have very vivid nightmares of their time in college and all the times Phichit has picked up a brick and thrown it through a window, be it to "seduce a lady" or to "teach that jerk a lesson" or even because "I need to eat, godammit, and the cafeteria's official opening hours ain't gonna stop me."

Instead, he turns it over and picks out a key embedded in the stone.

'What the hell,' Yuuri says flatly.

'My criminal days are over.' Phichit pulls off a mock-hurt expression spectacularly. 'You wound me.'

Unless Phichit had recently developed psychic powers, Yuuri is far less inclined to believe in his abilities. 'How did you know it was there?'

'I told Chris that I wanted to grab a flower and that I'd leave the cash on the table and he said sure, the spare key's on the brick, please for the love of god do not throw the brick and break into Viktor's precious shop for one flower.' Phichit's phone buzzes. 'Oh, that's probably him making sure that I didn't just smash the glass.'

This is all too much. 'Why does everyone know about your brick-throwing escapades?'

'It's a great party story. Really gets the crowd going. Speaking of which, you should see Chris pole dance sometime, because hot damn,' Yuuri never wants to hear Phichit whistle ever again, 'that ass is fine.'

'I do not want to know.' Yuuri stalks up to the door, more to get away from Phichit than out of any real desire to break into a potential murderer's hideout.

'You're paying for the flower, by the way,' Phichit says as he stoops to unlock the front door.

'What, am I your mother?'

'You might as well be, with all the worrying and nagging you do.' And just like that, the door is open, and they both squeeze in.

The shop feels a lot more eerie without anyone in it. Flower buds sway like decapitated heads in the wind, and the chill is a lot more apparent with all the lights off.

Something jumps.

Yuuri freezes, but it's just a daffodil that had rolled off the counter and on to the floor.

'Hold my hand,' Yuuri demands, and Phichit is suspiciously eager to comply.

'Just bros being bros, am I right?' His laughter is way too high-pitched to be genuine.

Yuuri is the one who pulls them forward, and he stoops to pick up the bright yellow flower.

Immediately, it's like the water's flowed out of his hears, and he hears an angry voice—

'—let somebody into my shop?' It's Viktor.

'You don't understand, this guy would smash the glass to get in if he set his mind to it,' and that's Chris, isn't it?

Yuuri recoils, the flower falling from his fingers, and it's like the water rushes back into his ears, and the voices pop out of existence.

Phichit screams. 'Dude, what the fuck, this isn't funny!'

'I heard something,' Yuuri insists. 'Look, touch that!'

Phichit pokes the flower, then frowns and picks it up, cupping it in his hands. He even lifts it to his ear. 'What are you talking about? There's nothing.'

'What? Give it here.' The moment Yuuri touches the flower, whatever fuzz is in his ears melts away again, but this time there's no sound.

Until—

'What the hell? How can he hear us?' It's Chris, angered in his fear.

'Do you think I know anything about how all this works? Just because I'm the one with the— Bucket, now,' and then there's the sound of Viktor throwing up.

Yuuri inches toward the wall that he remembers Chris looking to for no apparent reason. The hushed whisperings grow clearer.

'It's okay, there's no way he'll be able to see the door, right?'

'Shut—' Viktor sounds awful puking up the contents of his stomach. 'Shush! He can hear you, remember?'

'We should get out of here,' Phichit mumbles nervously, tugging at Yuuri's hand.

Instead of complying, Yuuri drags Phichit behind the counter, keeping the bright yellow flower in his other hand.

When he lifts the flower to the door, there's a flash of bright light, and then—

Nothing.

 

 

 

 

 


	2. hell song

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! i'll be going on an extended hiatus from writing yoi and i'm really not sure if i'll ever write another yoi fic so those of you who subscribed to me only for my yoi stuff can feel free to unsubscribe. thank you for your support. have a nice day.

Did it have to be the head?' is the annoyed buzz of concern ringing in Yuuri's ears.

'Oh, I'm _sorry_ , what else were you expecting when you handed me the bat,' he hears Chris snapping back, and then the clunk of hollow metal falling against the ground.

It's blind-fuzzy-comfort to hear Phichit's voice, all shaken up and demanding, 'What's going on?'

'Questions later, check for bleeding— Bucket,' is the sharp command, then there's a flurry of motion when Yuuri tries and fails to pry his own eyelids open and then Viktor's retching again.

Chris sighs. Yuuri can imagine him running his hand through his hair in just-barely pent-up frustration. 'Look, I know it looks bad but there's an explanation behind all this, I swear—'

'Why'd you hit him over the head with a bat?'

'Because that's the first part of him that came through a _solid fucking door_!'

Yuuri forces his eyes open and immediately regrets his life choices. Light slams into his skull in a dizzying swirl of black-on-bright and that's all it takes for him to let out a low groan and curl up on his side.

Immediately, there's someone in front of him, steady, careful hands winding through his hair and gently probing at his scalp. 'Doesn't look like there's any bleeding— Yuuri, buddy, I'm gonna need you to look at me, okay?' There's anger-turned-panic in Chris's voice even while he rubs soothing circles into Yuuri's back. 'I need to make sure I didn't break anything I can't fix. Just open your eyes for me, Phichit's gonna give himself an aneurysm if he doesn't stop fretting over nothing.'

'You slammed a bat into the back of his head!'

'One, I didn't use that much force. Two, at least I didn't break his spine. And three,' Chris pries open Yuuri's eyes just as the lights in the room fade to black, 'if Viktor could live through a bat to the face at full swing I'm sure Yuuri will be just fine.'

'Still hurt like a bitch.' Viktor scowls, pulling away from the light switch.

It feels like there's fluff in his mouth when he tries to mumble, 'Phichit…?' and that's all it takes for his best friend to appear by his other side.

'You okay?' Phichit's voice is sweet-concern but his glare is fiery-venom when he shoves Chris's hands off Yuuri.

Chris only gets up with a roll of his eyes. 'Ask him what year it is.'

Yuuri frowns. 'It's twenty-seventeen.'

'See? Didn't break anything.' Chris stoops to pick up a bucket and empties its contents down a metal sink. He doesn't bother to look back when he asks, 'Can you stand?'

'I just… Yeah, give me a moment.' He closes his eyes, bracing himself as if the simple act of standing had become a superhuman demand.

'Don't let him fall asleep,' Viktor mumbles, and Phichit shakes Yuuri gently until his eyes are open again.

The florist looking close to passing out himself, but he still manages a grim smile. It’s nothing like the plastic-perfect pretence Yuuri’s used to seeing, but if this mirthless slant to his mouth is the only alternative, he thinks maybe plastic isn’t all that bad after all.

'Stay awake and we'll explain everything,’ Viktor promises, quiet resignation melting down the sharp tilt of his shoulders when he loops one arm round the top of a bucket.

'You mean you'll explain everything,' Chris says testily, the sharp-tip of the pointed jab made dull by the surprisingly domestic picture he makes washing out buckets of watery yellow puke.

Viktor closes his eyes, almost as if it's the only way he can keep the light from flowing out into cold nothingness. 'Yes. I'll explain everything.'

\--

The minutes feel like they're stretching to long-yawning hours before Yuuri manages to convince his legs to work.

'Sorry 'bout that,' Chris apologises, easy but remorseful nonetheless. 'My nerves have been all over the place lately, what with all the…'

They look down at the freshly-emptied jars, stacked til they're overflowing one of the many sinks in the back room.

'I thought you were insane,' Phichit mumbles close to Yuuri's ear, 'but that really is enough poison to kill a man.'

'It would be,' Chris corrects loudly, and for a moment Yuuri thinks he's being passive-aggressive toward them, but it's Viktor who sags under the weight of his heated glare, 'if not for this asshole's apparent immunity to death.'

'I told you, that's not it.' Viktor's curled up against the rim of yet another bucket with a weary sigh.

'Finally feel like talking, do you? Do tell us what exactly "it" is, then.' Chris crosses his arms and leans against a shelf of bouquet wrappings. Yuuri recognises the black tissue-thin paper crinkling against Chris’s elbow. He’s held that exact shade in his hands every week now.

'Would you believe me if I told you that I sold my soul for this shop?'

'Yes,' Chris says instantly, and Viktor blinks in surprise. 'I've seen how hard you work for your business, it's not that unbelievable.'

'Okay, how about if I told you that I sold my soul to a flower god?'

Chris is silent, but of all people it’s Phichit who tilts his head, considering it. ‘That isn’t _too_ far off what the gossip magazines are already saying about you…'

Viktor's smile is tight. 'Do you know what pomegranates are, by chance?’

The shock feels like a bucket of ice thrown down his back. Though Yuuri knows the myth like the back of his hand, he still breathes out a faint, ‘No,’ like a desperate, half-formed plea.

Chris and Phichit are turning to him for an explanation, but all he can see through his disbelief is the too-pale man draped over the aftermath of his own folly, smiling down at his own foolishness.

The darkness in Viktor’s eyes is enough of an answer.

\--

_One night, he dreams of a glass garden._

_Sickly-sweet scents catch in his hair, long and soft and glowing silver in the moonlight-bright incandescence of rotting souls. They gather along the fringes of the garden, standing and staring with their horrible gaping not-quite faces. They never move beyond an invisible boundary, only watching, always watching._

_Once the fear of being watched passes, his lungs fill with air once more and his limbs obey him when he urges them to move. He is young and limber, and so he explores the garden in its entirety, pulls himself up water-clear trees and ice-tipped branches, listens to the chime of crystal-drop leaves swaying in an otherworldly breeze._

_When he strays too far from the path, the souls of the dead surge toward him, screaming in a cacophony of noise. He cannot make out the words, but he thinks that he can hear something-like-fear and something-like-worry in the silence between screams._

_Afterward, he sticks to the path, running onward with his hair flowing behind him like ribbons._

_The first fork in the road is a simple puzzle. There is only one bandage, but there is a blinded bird with a broken wing on one side and an angry-bleeding tiger on the other. Cheating the system comes easy. He laughs when he removes the knife-sharp barb from the tiger’s paw, then uses the barb to slice off his own hair and wraps that round the bird’s broken wing until the distinction between feather-and-hair is not-so-fine and the bird flies free once more._

_At the second fork, he uses the bandage to pull himself up an impossibly-tall tower and returns a wyvern’s egg to her lonely nest. The egg hatches, but there is nothing within the egg. He allows the wyvern to dress him in feathers and preen him, even if her claws tear at his skin and his blood soaks the blanket fort of childish hopes-and-dreams._

_At the third fork, he asks the wyvern to fly him down the tower while he carries the empty egg, which he hands over to a shell-less tortoise. He drowns while helping the tortoise through an underwater shortcut to help him win his race against the hare, but the tortoise carves gills into his skin and just-like-that he’s breathing once more._

_And so it goes, on and on, until—_

_Behind him lies a field of flowers, each alight with a soft moonlight-bright glow cupped in the embrace of a bud. Before him is an empty well. Overhead, a strange tree lies heavy with fruit, ruby-pomegranate-flesh twisted into plump, juicy petals._

_He falls to his knees and cries at the feet of the final decision._

_When he (finally, finally) awakens, there is a brilliant-red rose blooming in his throat, the thorns digging into his windpipe even as the petals cup his every breath._

\--

Viktor’s still lying in bed, still staring at the ceiling when Chris lets himself into the florist’s room.

‘How long?’

‘Since I was seventeen,’ Viktor admits.

Chris closes his eyes and exhales. ‘And you never told me?’

‘How could I? You saw how Yuuri and his friend ran out the door as soon as they could. It’s not something that’s believable in any way—’

‘I’m your _friend_ , Viktor.’ Chris sounds _hurt_ , and it’s not an emotion that suits him particularly well. ‘I’ve known you for years and years. If there’s anyone who would’ve believed you, it’s me—’

Finally, Viktor tears his eyes from the ceiling and looks at Chris they’re actually in the same room, like he’s finally getting through. ‘Yeah, well, it’s not about you, is it?’

‘I’m not saying it is—’

Viktor jerks upward with the force of his words. ‘Then _enough_ with the “I”s!’

‘How can you blame them for what they did?’ Chris crosses the distance between their bodies and lifts Viktor by the front of his bloodied shirt, holding himself coiled tense with fury. ‘They barely know you, Phichit’s never even _talked_ to you, Yuuri knows you as the florist-that-he-thought-might-be-a-murderer and now they have to just _accept_ that they’ve been swept up in some stranger’s god-forsaken curse!’

‘Let go of me,’ Viktor says coldly.

Chris lets go.

They stare each other down, each trying their hardest to dampen the tension before it all goes up in a blaze.

‘Just tell me one thing,’ Chris says, and it’s not a plea.

Viktor nods.

‘Everything you told me, before— Is it all true? All of it?’

A beat.

Viktor looks away, shoulders hunched in a defeated slant.

‘Yes. Now get out.’

\--

For the first time in a year (maybe even more than that?) Yuuri stands before the unmarked grave with empty hands.

‘Sorry, the whole… flower situation has been a little weird lately,’ he says sheepishly, scratching the back of his head. ‘I don’t really know what to do, honestly. I mean, I guess I could get flowers from elsewhere, but it just— it wouldn’t be the same, y’know?’

The long grass sighs when the wind combs through it.

‘Yeah, a little like that. You know what I mean.’

Yuuri plonks himself down in front of the raised platform and wraps his arms round his knees, leaning backward to watch the golden rays of the setting sun. It’s more orange than golden, really.

‘You liked this time best, didn’t you?’ He can’t help the fond sigh that escapes his lips. It’s easy to lose himself in memories. ‘You were always waiting for me by the door. I remember Mama was so afraid you’d injure yourself, whenever you wagged your tail you were more like an attack helicopter than a dog.’ Yuuri laughs.

There’s no response. There never is. That’s what makes it easy for him to spill the ugly contents of his chest, scattering the half-formed anxieties and shapeless worries in mindless loops and whirls until the fears in his mind run out of nightmare fuel.

When that precious tired-emptied-lull comes, he finally confesses, ‘I don’t know what to think.’

‘Yeah? I’m not surprised, idiots don’t do that much thinking.’

He whips back to find the disgruntled blond teenager from that day at the flower shop, the one who had glared at him like he’d been the one responsible for some crime against humanity. His hands are tight fists in the pockets of his hoodie and barely-restrained rage flickers in his dark eyes.

‘I’m sorry, who…’

‘Sorry? Yeah, you should be.’ And that’s all the warning he gets before he’s being yanked up by the front of his shirt. He can hear the seams tearing when the teen tightens his grip, but that’s the extent of the violence done against him.

‘I don’t understand—’

‘Just stay far, far away from Viktor,’ he snarls, ‘Or else.’ With that simple threat hanging over their heads, he shoves Yuuri back to the ground.

Then the teen runs away, like he’s not the one who just threatened someone a good head taller than him, like he’s the one with his head swimming in confusion, caught in a whirlpool where nothing makes sense and there is only everything-to-lose.

Heart pounding, he slowly gets to his feet, stares at the pink glow of the dusky skies. Behind him, a vast expanse of bleak, dead stone. Before him, a small town buzzing with secrets and dangers unknown.

He puts his hands in his pockets to ward off the evening chill. The crisp air helps pull his head up, straightens his spine a little more, makes it a little easier to breathe.

Finally, _finally_ , he takes a step forward and moves on.

\--

A flicker of surprise crosses Viktor’s face when Yuuri lets himself into the flower shop.

‘Here for your flowers?’ Viktor asks with a smile as empty as his question. Yuuri’s pretty sure that Viktor’s already memorised his routines, so he must be stalling.

Yuuri shakes his head. ‘No, I, uhh— I have some questions.’

Viktor moves behind the counter, putting distance between them so that it looks casual enough when he turns away and busies himself with a display in the freezer. ‘After work, then?’

Yuuri leans over, crossing his arms on the cold marble surface of the counter. ‘I’m surprised you’re still working, even with your, uh, condition.’

Viktor chuckles. ‘I’ve got a business to run. Time doesn’t stop for a common cold.’

It’s definitely not just a common cold. ‘Chris isn’t helping?’

There’s a pause. Bad question. ‘He’s busy,’ Viktor says flatly.

‘Oh.’ Yuuri feels awkward talking to thin air. Viktor’s crouched behind the counter, digging for something. When Yuuri chances a peek over, the floor is littered with tools and ribbons.

‘It’s not usually this messy, I swear.’ Viktor wrinkles his nose in distaste.

Yuuri’s not sure what compels him to blurt out, ‘It looks like you could use a little help.’

‘Sure could.’ There’s a crash of a box emptying its contents onto the floor, punctuated with a sigh. ‘But Chris is off sulking in a corner somewhere.’

Yuuri pushes himself onto the countertop and bridges the distance to Viktor’s side. He’s looking down at the ground resolutely when Yuuri reaches out, pulls the gardening shears from Viktor’s trembling hands and says, ‘Let me?’

Whatever Viktor’s response is, Yuuri doesn’t get to hear it. A familiar weary panic flashes bright blue in his wide eyes, and then he’s bolting for the back room.

Yuuri hears him vomit flowers for hours after.

\--

Phichit agrees readily when Yuuri calls him for backup.

‘I don’t know a lot about flowers, but serving customers can’t be all that different from cashiering at a coffee shop, right?’ Phichit laughs, a little too easily.

‘How are you taking it so well?’ Yuuri demands crossly, brows furrowed even if Phichit can’t see his consternation over a phone call.

Phichit hums while he thinks it over. ‘I guess anything’s pretty believable after you see your best friend phase through a solid door.’

Oh. Right. Yuuri had forgotten all about that mess in the hurricane of absolute shit that had followed.

‘Anyway, I’ll be there in a jiffy. Ciao.’ Phichit cuts the call just as a bell over the shop door gives a tiny tinkle of warning. Yuuri quickly stows his phone away.

The man that enters is gentle when he handles the flowers, inspecting the underside of each leaf and the firmness of each stem with the same tender care. It’s a relief; Yuuri doesn’t think he’d be able to politely admonish a paying customer in his current state.

‘You’re Yuuri,’ the man says casually when he sets a bouquet of red roses down on the counter.

Oh god. Yuuri’s not sure he can take getting thrown around by another person today, even if he’s sure this guy would be fairly gentle, if not intimidatingly awful. He squares his shoulders and sighs, mentally preparing for some sort of fight. ‘Yeah, that’s me.’

The corners of the man’s lips quirk up into a smile. ‘You can relax, I don’t get involved in Chris’s arguments. Besides, you’re not even the one I should be angry with.’ The gentle man hands him his credit card and Yuuri catches a glimpse of his name. Masumi, huh?

‘I don’t think I’ve seen you around,’ Yuuri comments, significantly less tense now that he’s sure Masumi isn’t going to cause any trouble.

Masumi shrugs. ‘Chris likes to keep things quiet on the home front.’ He’s looking around the shop with approval in his gaze. ‘Not bad. But not as good as Viktor, of course.’

Yuuri freezes his customer service smile in place. ‘Oh?’

‘Oh, sorry.’ Masumi scratches the back of his head, but he doesn’t look very sorry at all. ‘Anyway, I’m only here because Chris wants to relay a message without running into the, and I quote, “insufferable prick.” You know the Russian Yuri?’

Yuuri hands a blank card over. ‘Sorry, who?’

‘Blond. Angry teenager. Perpetually looks like someone tried to kill his cat.’ Masumi’s writing a message in unbelievably neat, regular print. ‘Probably tried to kill you at some point.’

Oh. ‘I think I have.’

‘Chris says that you should ask him about Viktor’s disease. If anyone would know anything, it’d be him. Viktor’s old mentor is good friends with his grandfather or something.’ Masumi seems supremely uninterested in Viktor’s magical problems. Which is fair, Yuuri concludes. It’s really none of his business.

‘Where would I find him? The other Yuri, I mean.’

Masumi hands the card back to him so that Yuuri can artfully arrange the message against the red of the roses. ‘I’ll text you the address. Also, Viktor usually does deliveries but I’ll spare you the trouble, I’ll just bring the flowers back with me.’

‘Uh, thanks?’

Masumi inclines his head, and then he’s gone as quickly as he came.

Phichit looks impressed when he enters the shop. ‘That guy bought a lot of roses, huh? Told you you’d be charming enough to do sales.’

‘Very funny,’ Yuuri says drily. ‘Anyway, could you help me keep an eye on the shop? I’m gonna go check on Viktor.’

‘Sure, but I’ll have to yell for you when someone asks me what magnolias mean or what the difference between an orange and yellow rose is.’

Yuuri can feel himself smiling while he searches for a stray regurgitated petal to get into the back room. ‘Google’s your best friend.’

‘I thought you were my best friend!’ is the only indignant whine Phichit manages to get in before Yuuri’s fingers land on a yellow petal and the strange waterlogged feeling shuts all noise from his ears.

Yuuri waves at his best friend with a cheeky grin before going to the hidden door and one flash of light later, he’s in the dark room.

He flips the light switch to find Viktor sitting cross-legged on the floor, drooped over a bucket. Viktor looks up when the light comes on, and immediately asks, ‘Was that Chris?’

‘No, it was his, uhh, friend? Masumi?’

Viktor relaxes. ‘Oh, Masumi. His boyfriend.’

‘I want to ask something,’ Yuuri says abruptly, and something-like-surprise flickers across Viktor’s face, but he only shrugs.

‘Shoot.’

‘What’s up with your door? Why is it invisible? What’s going on?’ He can hear his voice rising with each demand.

‘How do you feel about pocket dimensions?’ Viktor asks wryly, hugging the bucket closer to him like a shield between the both of them.

Yuuri swallows. ‘Okay. I— I, uhh— I think I should save the next question for tomorrow.’

Viktor gives the smallest huff of laughter. ‘Fine by me.’

‘I should probably get back to—’

‘Wait, I have a question too.’

‘Yeah? What is this, Twenty Questions?’

That surprised flicker, again. ‘I don’t think that’s how you play Twenty Questions,’ Viktor laughs, then his gaze grows sharp and curious once more. ‘Your bouquets. Who are they for?’

For once, Yuuri feels nothing when he replies, ‘My dog. He passed away last year.’

Viktor looks stricken. ‘I’m sorry—’

‘No, no, it’s okay.’ Yuuri waves his concern away. ‘He was old, it happens.’

Viktor says nothing for a long moment. When Yuuri chances a peek at him, there’s a serious, brooding expression on his face, but it quickly falls away when Viktor realises he’s being watched.

Yuuri doesn’t quite know what to do with the awkward atmosphere, so he says, ‘I’m going back out now.’

Viktor’s smile is as strained as his voice. ‘That might be for the best.’

\--

Masumi texts him the address, and Yuuri finds himself in an upscale supermarket in one of the nicer parts of town.

Yuri is easy to spot, with his bright blond hair and the general cloud of grumpiness hovering around him. He’s stacking cans of tomatoes in a pyramid-like shape for the store display, cradling an armful with one arm and rapidly plonking cans-upon-cans with the other.

‘Uh, hey,’ Yuuri tries to say casually, his hands curled into nervous fists in the pockets of his hoodie.

Yuri turns back and immediately scowls. ‘You? What do you want?’

‘Do you know what’s going on with Viktor?’

‘Yeah, I do.’ Yuri tiptoes to place the last of his cans at the very top. ‘What about him?’

‘Is he going to die?’

Yuri is far too calm when he contemplates it. ‘Maybe,’ he says at last, ‘but it wasn’t always this bad.’

Yuuri thinks back to the too-fragile man curled up against the wall of the back room, braced against the buckets surrounding him like they’re the only source of support he has left. ‘What do you mean? You mean he wasn’t always coughing up petals and drinking poison?’

‘No,’ Yuri spits out like a swear, ‘he was getting better. The flowers were starting to leave him alone.’

‘What happened?’ Yuuri grabs the younger man by the shoulder and forces him to meet his gaze.

Hatred. The sheer intensity of it almost bowls Yuuri over, but he grits his teeth and holds his ground.

‘I think he’s full of shit,’ Yuri snaps. ‘Said something about curses and soulmates and _choices_ or something.’

He’s not making any sense, so Yuuri demands, ‘Tell me what happened.’

Yuri tells him.

His resolve washes away in an instant, a sandcastle swept away by the incoming tide. This time he’s the one who’s shoving the other away, this time he’s the one who’s running and Yuri’s the one standing and staring after him with disappointment and disgust.

 

 

‘Isn’t it obvious? He met you.’

 

 

 

 

 

_In a glass garden, hidden behind the walls of dreaming-and-waking, there is a pomegranate tree, still-heavy with fruit, just as it always was and it always will be. There is a well, empty save for a single object at the very bottom, pulsing one-two, one-two to the beat of an ancient song, erratic in its hope and vigour. There is a vast field of flowers growing strong-and-tall in a sea of red,_

_red,_

_red—_

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in this verse, makkachin is yuuri's (deceased) dog and viktor never had a poodle. also i still can't write angst guys _(:3」∠)_

**Author's Note:**

> [twitter](https://twitter.com/_antikytheras/)


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